River Town Chronicles (11 page)

A
FEW DAYS AFTER
the conclusion to the mourning period for Ram Swarup's mother, a messenger arrived at the door with an invitation to meet with Ram Gopal, a descendent of the local Raja Sahab. I wondered about the connection between a Raja, or Hindu King, and River Town. Could the term “Raja” be just another illusion like the “river” in River Town?

I left the house and walked up the
gali
(lane) known as Gali Raja Sahab, turned left and walked a ways until I was in front of a large brick house secluded behind a heavy wooden and iron gate. I banged on the gate and a servant opened it and led me through the courtyard to the veranda, where the last surviving descendant of the Raja Sahab sat on a
charpoi
smooking his
hooka.
I looked around the interior of the house, which was covered with small pieces of mirror that sparkeled in the sunlight. There were scenes from the
Ramayana,
de picting Rama and Sita, adorning various corners of the building.
“Aao jii, baitho”
(come and sit down), Ram Gopal greeted me.

The servant brought the two of us tea and, between long drags on his
hooka,
Ram Gopal reminisced about his ancestors, one of whom had been the
vazir
(financial advisor) to the former Sikh ruler of River Town. Later, when the British gained political control of River Town in the 19th Century, the
vazir
ingratiated himself with the British and was awarded the title “Raja” and ownership of over one hundred villages in the area surrounding River Town. Ownership of the villages was passed on to the
vazir's
biological male descendants, of whom Ram Gopal was the last surviving descendant. Eventually, following Independence and the land reforms that followed, ownership of the village lands was taken away and redistributed to the cultivators of the land, leaving Ram Gopal with just symbols and titles from earlier times.

Ram Gopal waved his arms around the courtyard. “This is all I have left. The house, the temple inside the courtyard and those large iron hoops that used to tether my ancestor's two elephants.” Ram Gopal seemed to be a sad man, lost forever in his memories of better times.

I finished my tea, thanked Ram Gopal, and headed for home, determined to find out more about the political history of River Town.

Along the way home, squatting along side the lane in
chowk bazaar,
I spotted
bhabhi,
her head tilted back, looking up to the sky. Squatting in front of her was the local dentist, peering into her mouth and manipulating a pair of pliers. With a quick twist, he yanked out the abscessed tooth and held it up for
bhabhi
to examine.
Bhabhi
took one look and toppled over on her side, like a bowling pin, her hands pressed against her jaws. She let out a muffled scream, and I ran over to help her up off the ground. The dentist still held
bhabhi's
tooth locked in his pliers. Then he placed the tooth down on a small cloth lined with other teeth extracted that day. Next to the row of teeth were several sets of ready made dentures “guaranteed to fit.”
Bhabhi
covered her face with the edge of her sari and followed me home. She lay down on a
charpoi
and Saroj brought her a brass tumbler full of warm tea, while Madhu began preparing the evening meal.
Bhabhi's
ordeal had earned her relief from her daily chores, but I doubt she thought it was a fair trade.

I
SPENT THE NEXT MONTH
researching the past of River Town in town records and at the National Archives in Delhi. What I discovered was that most of the area had been wrested from Muslim control by the Sikhs in the 18
^th
Century. The Sikhs created a patchwork of small confederacies controlled by various Sardars (chiefs, or leaders). The Sardar who controlled River Town belonged to the
Bhangi
confederacy, so named because of the members of this confederacy's fondness for
bhang
(hashish). The Sardar made River Town the capital of his small chieftainship, fortifying the town with a mud wall to the north and a bamboo palisade around the remaining sides. An entrance gate was built at each of the four corners of the enclosure, and watchmen were mounted on pillars erected just outside the gates. From these positions, the watchmen could beat their drums to announce the arrival of potential enemies and signal the Sardar's armed retainers to repel any attack. Within the enclosure, the Sardar built his own palace, a court house and a dungeon to imprison recalcitrant subjects. In front of this complex the Sardar, although a Sikh, built a small Hindu shrine
(khera),
which still served as an important sacred shrine during my stay in River Town.

To encourage a financial base for his chieftainship, the Sardar encouraged merchant families to settle in the town. In return, the merchants were promised protection and a favored position in the trade routes that passed through the Sikh territories of the Punjab. Each merchant who took up the offer was given a space in the bazaar large enough to build a small shop. Over time, the merchants built their houses in the narrow lanes behind the bazaar. The lanes were a maze of passageways where women could move from place to place without being seen in public. Some of these lanes led to dead ends, where unsuspecting strangers and enemies could be cornered and attacked from behind.

The Sardar needed more than an army and money to validate his claim to power. He needed the services of a large assortment of castes that would reflect his preeminence. The result of his success in accomplishing this end was detailed in an 1842 census report
(khana shamari)
that I found bundled together with other documents in the town's administrative office. The report listed the caste affiliations and members of forty-two distinct castes residing in River Town. Among the castes listed were Brahman Priests, merchants, cotton carders, leather workers, carpenters, water carriers, barbers, potters, rope makers, bettle nut sellers, prostitutes, sweepers, goldsmiths, jewelers, brick makers, cloth dyers, religious mendicants, acrobats, funeral priests and musicians. Altogether, the population of the town in 1842 was 9,250 persons.

When the Sardar died, he left no male heirs to succeed him, and the British took over the administration of the town under the terms of an earlier treaty with the Sikhs. But the Sardar did leave behind two wives who bitterly fought over control of his estate. The older widow managed to gain the upper hand and had the younger widow imprisoned in a neighboring village, out of sight of the British authorities. When the British finally discovered the existence of the younger widow, they reinstated her in River Town, and allowed her to receive half of the Sardar's estate, including the use of the royal seal, the right to occupy certain forts within the town, to possess elephants, guns and cannons, and to share of the Sardar's cash and jewels.

With the death of the Sardar, British rule ushered in a new basis for power in River Town. Gone was the allegiance to a particular powerful person and in its place was power based on the ownership of property. This set the stage for the emergence of the merchant castes as the dominant power in River Town, much as it remained during the time of my stay in the town. The new “rajas” were wealthy merchants who began to act themselves like “kings.” It was during the period of British rule that the Raja Sahab (of merchant caste) gained ownership of over one hundred villages, built his own palace within the town, adorned it with a pair of elephants tethered to large iron rings and built his own temple within the walls of his palace. With these tangible symbols of power in hand, the Raja Sahab was allowed to settle all disputes within the town and became the visible representative of the new era of British rule of River Town.

T
HERE WAS A CLAMOR
at the gate to our house, and a crowd of young men and boys surrounded a person dressed in a sari standing amongst them. She was heavy set, with makeup under her eyes and on her cheeks. A large pendant hung from her nose, and she was singing in a high pitched voice. I listened for a few moments, and then asked her who she was and where she came from. “You tell me, Sahab. Who am I?” I was puzzled by the question, but responded with what I thought was the obvious answer. “You're a woman.” The crowd laughed and someone from the back shouted, “Pay the woman.” The woman held out her hand and demanded payment. Ram Swarup, who was standing behind me said, “Put a rupee in her hand.” Then the woman repeated the question, “Who am I?
Booloo, Sahab
(Tell me, Sahab).” I thought I detected a slight break in her voice and a wisp of hair on her chin. “You're a man?” I questioned. The crowd burst out in laughter for a second time. The person held out a hand again, and I placed another rupee in it. “I'm not leaving until you get it right. Who am I?” The crowd pressed in a little tighter and looked at me, waiting for my reply. “I give up,” I said out of desperation. “Wrong answer.” The hand shot out again, and I stuffed another rupee in it. I was running our of options and was willing to try anything to get out of my predicament. “You're a man and a woman,” I finally offered as a last chance to end this charade. The hand shot out again, but this time it held a tambourine which shook in the air as the person began to dance in circles. When the dancing stopped, the hand came out once more and I stuffed three more rupees into it, before the person moved on down the lane towards
chowk bazaar,
followed by the entourage of young men and boys.

When they were gone, I walked back to the courtyard and found Ram Swarup sitting on a
charpoi,
smoking a
biri.
I asked him who the stranger was.
“Hijiri.
That person was a
hijiri.”
He went on to me that
hijiris
were castrated as young boys and roam around the earth to entertain people as half man and half woman. “That one must have known she could easily trick you into paying.”

T
HIS MORNING
, Roshan arrived at the house and asked if I wanted to visit a region in the Himalayan foothills where villagers still followed ancient customs, like those found in the epic
Mahabharata.
He wanted to take me to a village where the women still marry more than one husband, just as happened in the
Mahabharata,
where Kunti was the common wife of the five heroic Pandava brothers. I wasn't sure about taking another bus trip with Roshan. “The last time I went on a bus trip with you, I almost lost my wallet!” I said jokingly. “Come on. We can catch a bus that leaves in half an hour.” Pat and
bhabhi
were listening while sitting on a
charpoi,
sunning themselves in the courtyard. “Take us with you,” shouted Pat. And from
bhabhi,
“Yeah, Sahab. Take us with you. Or at least bring us back some more husbands!”